


Sympathy for the Devil

by ggfoye



Series: Feysand One-Shots (Fluff, Smut, Angst) [7]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Bargain Week, Book 2: A Court of Mist and Fury, Drunkenness, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Pre Mating Bond, The Night Court
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26585542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggfoye/pseuds/ggfoye
Summary: On the last day of her week at the Night Court, Feyre wakes up to find Rhysand in an... unusual mood. She doesn’t have the energy to care.One-Shot. Set during ACOMAF.I do not own any of the characters, Sarah J. Maas does
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Tamlin
Series: Feysand One-Shots (Fluff, Smut, Angst) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942270
Comments: 9
Kudos: 94





	Sympathy for the Devil

The sun beams reflected on the dark silken sheets with sheer intensity, warming Feyre's skin even through under the covers. It took some time for her to be able to process and realize that it shouldn't be that sunny that early in the morning. She opened her eyes to the glass wall leading to the balcony, exposing the breathtaking view of the Night Court mountains.

It was past midday.

She'd stayed up practically the whole night reading a novel Rhysand had dropped off at her door. It was so addictive she couldn't put it down. And now she'd lost the whole morning when she could've already been back at the Spring Court.

Feyre quickly put on her clothes and grabbed a simple belt from the closet to buckle her now baggy pants. They weren't that loose the month before, but she preferred not to think about that too much.

She looked at the mirror, deciding she would at least try to make herself presentable, but gave up on the first glance at her reflection. Her prominent cheekbones and dark circles under her eyes were highlighted by her atypical paleness. She sighed, unbraiding her hair so she could at least try to cover and mantle her face a bit. At least the braid she'd slept with had made her curls look wild and defined in a nice way.

Running up the stairs to the main hall of the palace, she was able to locate Rhysand on the balcony. Breakfast was still served on the table, which got her a bit puzzled.

"Late night?", he asked without looking at her when she got closer.

"Yes. Do you mind if I take the book and bring it back next month? I couldn't finish it yet."

"Not at all."

She couldn't help but notice he wasn't being his usual self—vexing and boastful. He wasn't even looking at her, keeping his eyes far from her sight, staring at the horizon.

Feyre sat down in front of him and began putting some fruits and biscuits on her plate. Peeking up at his face, she noticed how he also looked tired—exhausted, to be honest. She'd heard all the hustle and bustle around the palace during the night, but she never thought it could be him, and she hadn't been too eager to come out of her room and take the risk of accidentally meeting any of his subjects.

Rhysand gripped a metal cup in front of him with surprising intensity, staring at it before downing it all in one gulp. Whatever that was, it wasn't the herbal tea Feyre had poured herself.

She wanted to take an interest in his whole abnormal behavior. She wanted to be curious or alarmed or... _anything_. But she felt nothing. Actually, she felt tired. Like it'd take too much effort or willpower to care. And so she brushed it all aside and—

"Take me home," she demanded.

Rhys scoffed a humorless laugh, looking honestly miserable. And he still hadn't so much as glanced at her.

"Can you at least pretend that I'm a person?"

"Are you?", she dared.

His eyes darted up to her. They were dark, his violet irises barely visible. There was something there—some emotion buried deep inside. Something Feyre had no energy to question or pursue.

His stare trailed its way through her face. Following her lips, her cheeks, her languid eyes, ending on her hair. She felt weirdly uncomfortable having him studying her like that, almost having to suppress the urge to cover herself, ashamed of what he'd see. Trying to avoid his attention, she picked up an apple and started nibbling on it; but his focus shifted to that action, as if that fruit was the most interesting thing he'd come across in a while. He looked extremely disquieted, almost anguished.

"I don't know," he finally answered.

"Well... can you? Take me home?", she asked, impatient.

"I kind of have to, don't I?", he grunted.

"Actually, yes."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, your prince charming will have you back in no time. I just need to wait for Mor to get back."

"It's past the bargain deadline. I should already be back," Feyre complained.

"It's not _my_ fault you overslept," he snapped back.

She puffed, frustrated, blinding rage filling her lungs with every breath she took.

_Insufferable prick._

Rhys closed his eyes and held the base of his nose between his fingers as if he had a headache. Nuala and Cerridwen popped up out of seemingly nowhere and poured him more of whatever it was he was drinking.

"Daydrunk, Rhys?", a silvery voice came from behind the shadow-wraith twins. Mor, in her absolute perfection, stepped in the balcony. "Not very lordly of you, is it?"

"Shut up, Mor," he replied, with his eyes still shut.

Despite her snarking, she really did look concerned about her cousin. But then she looked at Feyre, as if whatever she had to say about it would have to wait.

"Alright, then. Walls and shields are down, peek away. I have a whole lot of problems for you to solve."

"Great," he groaned, but seemed to scoop inside her mind either way. His eyes were empty for a while, then he reformed his composure. "Thank you. We'll discuss the rest tomorrow. I just need to get Feyre darling here back to her lovely floral-patterned court."

"In your current state you two might end up winnowing to halfway across the world," she said, picking up a few grapes from a bowl and shoving them in her mouth. "You look miserable, Feyre. How did he manage to torture you this week?", Mor asked jokingly, but Rhys growled. The blonde forced an innocent expression, "What? You _didn't_ make her read and rewrite all those nonsensical untruthful sentences?"

"That's not the part I snarled at."

"He behaved fairly this week," Feyre forced herself to reply, "He's just being a pain in the ass now."

Of course, she’d barely seen him the whole week, so it wasn’t exactly a lie. 

"Well, I'll leave you both to it, then. Wouldn't want to get in between two...", she choked breathless for a second, then coughed out of a sudden, looking daggers at Rhysand, "the two of you, while you're at each other's throats."

"What was that about?", Feyre asked, indifferent, after Mor winnowed away.

"Nothing. She's just...", he shook his head, leaving it unfinished, "Ready?"

"Yeah. No, wait. Let me go grab the book," Feyre said, rushing back to her bedroom.

It didn't take long, but when she returned to the balcony, Rhys had his elbows on the table, his strong hands covering his face.

"Rhysand?", she called carefully.

His head shot straight up, like she'd somehow startled him. How, she had no idea. Maybe he really was _that_ drunk. But that wasn't what caught her attention. No... it was the redness in his eyes, the glimpse of utter desperation he so quickly covered up, but not before she was able to catch a glance of it.

This time, it didn't take too much for her to feel for him. She didn't know if it was that thread between them or if some of it was a reflection of his own feelings, but her heart ached at that sight. Maybe because she knew, deep down, that she felt just as broken as he did in that moment. And if what she sensed down that bond was just a flicker of what was burning through him, then she really had no idea how he was even able to stand, or eat, or breathe. Mother knows it would've taken her way less to crumble down or rush to the toilet to throw up.

And so instead of taking his hand so he could winnow them away to Spring, she sat down in front of him once again.

She wasn't sure what to say, but she stayed there. If not to comfort him, then at least to make him company through it.

He didn't question it. In fact, he downed his drink again and flipped the cup upside down, as if that would avoid him pouring himself more.

A long while followed as they remained in complete silence. It wasn't awkward, or uncomfortable. Somehow, it felt very peaceful and... right. There was a sense of calmness in her chest she hadn't felt in a long time, though she couldn't grasp where that was coming from. She was standing next to the dark, most feared and powerful High Lord in history and she didn't feel the slightest bit uneasy or scared. She felt strangely... safe.

She knew. One word, and he'd take her home. Still, she didn't press it. Yet, she didn't feel like it.

It all brought her back to a time Under the Mountain when Rhys went to her cell, looking tired and broken, and sat down next to her, telling her he just wanted some quietness. That night he opened up to her in a way that surprised her, and for the first time she'd felt something other than blind hatred for him. She'd felt empathy... admiration. Like for the first time ever, she wasn't alone. That there was someone else that could relate and understand what she was going through.

And so, against all better judgement—

"Do you want to talk about it?", Feyre asked. He looked at her, a bit startled, almost making her feel guilty that he'd be so surprised she tried to be civilized.

"Do you _want_ to hear me talk about it?"

She shrugged, "It doesn't matter what I want."

"Clearly."

She narrowed her eyes, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Do you even _want_ to go back to the Spring Court?", he asked, seeming almost distressed. He continued before she could say anything, "I'm not asking if you want to stay _here_. I'm asking you if the life you have _there_ is what you want."

Initially, the rage burned its way back inside her a thousand times worse, and she was practically fuming. But then... then his words settled in her mind. And the suffocation almost consumed her.

She missed Tamlin. She did. But the thought of going back there... to that house, that had once looked like her safe haven and now felt more like the inside of Amarantha's cell more than anything. To her bedroom, only a few feet away from the painting studio that only brought her nightmares. To the garden filled with roses that would now always seem to highlight the thorns and not the petals. And the petals...

She missed Tamlin. But in that moment, thinking about running back to his arms, she felt nothing more than smothering breathlessness.

"That's not any of your business," she managed to murmur.

"The hell it isn't—", he snapped, but then stopped himself, too mad to continue.

"Why do you _care_?"

Rhysand's eyes were suddenly filled with emotion, but it only lasted a second; because then they turned as cold and dark as they could, like a mask had been placed on him.

"I don't. I kept you alive Under the Mountain. I just think it'd be a waste of my time and energy to have you now fade away into _this_ ," his head tilted in her direction, "after everything."

"I don't owe you anything," Feyre grunted quietly, feeling suddenly weirdly dejected about his obvious displeasure toward her current self. But then she seemed to remember, "Except for this week. Which is over now. So take me back."

"Gladly," he said, but didn't make a move, except flipping over his cup once more and filling it again.

Feyre didn't press on it either, and she could see he was aware of her sudden hesitation to go back. She wanted to believe he was waiting for her to explicitly ask out of the goodness of his heart, but she knew he probably had some ulterior motive.

When she didn't say anything, Rhys snatched his cup and got up, treading with hostility towards the palace hallway. He wasn't carrying his usual elegance on his walk, though it was still gracious, and that's how she knew he probably _was_ that intoxicated. How she hadn't noticed that before was beyond her.

Knowing she'd come to regret it, but strangely unable to stop herself, she followed him. She heard him sigh hearing her footsteps behind him.

"You're an ass," she started. The lack of energy in her words that should've carried at least some anger made him turn on his feet. "You are. You saved me more times than I can count Under the Mountain. You protected me. But you also hurt me and humiliated me."

Feyre felt a staggering wave of guilt stream down the bond, but she made sure not to acknowledge it or give it time to settle in or consider what it meant.

"And I... I killed those two fae," she said quietly, looking away from his piercing eyes, "so I'm not in a position to condescend. You suffered there, and I bet it was a hundred times worse than what I went through. And you were a monster—but so was I."

His eyes and shoulders seemed to ease off a bit at her words, but they carried something else too. Something warmer. Softer.

"You weren't—", he began.

"Don't try to make me feel better," she cut in, "and I promise I won't do the same for you.

"But if you do want to talk about it—I can listen," she added.

Rhysand gulped, "Thank you. I don't want to, though. Not yet, anyway."

Feyre simply nodded solemnly and turned around, walking back to the balcony. He couldn't help but notice she didn't mention returning to the Spring Court again. This time, he was the one who followed her.

"I wasn't upset about that," he blurted out.

"What?", she asked confused.

"I wasn't thinking about Amarantha, or Under the Mountain, or anything like that. Not today."

Feyre's eyes dropped to the cup in his hand, "Then why..."

"I was busy this week," he interrupted, "too busy. And I... I didn't spend much time with you."

She still looked puzzled, "I... It's alright. I don't mind," she said, trying to ease his mind. She spent most of her time alone anyway nowadays.

"That's not...," he shook his head, seemingly trying to find the words.

Rhysand sighed, apparently giving up, and looked at her again. Really _looked_ , his eyes traveling through her loosen clothes, her body, her neck, her face. He spent an unusual amount of time frowning at the belt she was wearing, then staring at her protuberant collarbones. Feyre moved on her feet, suddenly too self-conscious, and he noticed that.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just... What can I do to help you?"

"What do you mean?", she asked, pretending innocence. It didn't last. She sighed, "Nothing. There's nothing anyone can do."

"It doesn't look like anyone is trying," he muttered, his tone barely masking his irritation. She knew who he meant by _anyone._

But Feyre didn't have it in her to argue anymore. She studied his expression—a reflection of what she'd sometimes see in the mirror. Exhausted, worn down, hopeless. Even a little desperate.

Rhys had touched on a point Feyre would never let her mind wander off to for too long. Didn't anyone ever _look_ at her? The way she was doing to him. Or realize how quickly she was going down a path of no return? Didn't anyone _care_?

Could Tamlin simply not _hear_ her puking her guts out every night?

But she shrugged, quickly putting that thought aside. Instead, she decided to do the one thing she realized she wanted—she didn't have much will or desire for anything these days. Nothing seemed interesting or entertaining or stimulating enough to get her to leave her bed. But for the first time in a long time, she felt a tug. Almost insignificant, but there. Something that would perhaps make it worth waking up the next day.

"Can you get me a paper and pen?", she asked Rhysand.

He looked at her confused, but the objects were suddenly in front of her. It took her some time, but she managed to write a decent note.

"What are you doing?", he finally asked.

"A note to Tamlin." Rhys raised his eyebrows. "You can take me home tomorrow."

She could've sworn a spark twinkled in his eyes .

"Feyre, I can't...", he began, but seemed unwilling to continue, almost as if he didn't actually want to insist.

"You can. I'm _asking_ you to stay here, so technically you're not breaking the bargain."

Rhysand still appeared unsure, though.

"I'll tell Tamlin it was me who asked. He won't understand, and he'll be angry, but what will he be able to do then?", she asked, but her voice faltered at the end. Images of glass and furniture and books going up in the air in a huge expanding explosion bubble filled her mind as the panic settled in. She trembled slightly, pushing those images aside.

Rhys' breath became ragged and when she looked up at him, he was fuming; the shadows of his wings mirroring on the walls as tendrils of darkness stuck out from between his fingers like talons. Only then she realized her mental gates were wide opened, and he'd seen everything.

"I'll be fine," she reassured him, though she didn't seem too sure herself. But those were the wrong words, and it only made him angrier. "I know how you feel. And as much as I'd like to punch you most of the time, I'd like for someone to keep me company if it was with me. So unless your mind is set on winnowing me out there by force, I'm staying."

Rhysand was looking daggers at her, but somehow, she knew she wasn't the one he was mad at. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. And when they opened, the anger was almost completely gone.

"You're not afraid of me," he said. A statement, not a question.

Feyre didn't know what that was about, but replied anyway, "No."

Without another word, they both returned to their seats on the table. Rhysand put his drink aside and grabbed a sweet-looking pastry that caught her eye, and she copied him. Their eyes met and he... simpered. And in that moment, he wasn't the High Lord of the Night Court, he was just... Rhys.

Feyre thought there was something bubbling under his thoroughly composed mask, because for a second there, his huge reinforced mental walls slipped, and she could've sworn she'd heard him on the back of her mind.

_She stayed._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are welcomed :)
> 
> I’m currently binge-writing fanfics so feel free to send me requests on Feysand or Rowaelin one-shots!


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